The Maid-At-Arms: A Novel Page 7

  V

  A NIGHT AT THE PATROON'S

  Under a flare of yellow candle-light we entered the dining-hall andseated ourselves before a table loaded with flowers and silver, and themost beautiful Flemish glass that I have ever seen; though they say thatSir William Johnson's was finer.

  The square windows of the hall were closed, the dusty curtains closelydrawn; the air, though fresh, was heavily saturated with perfume.Between each window, and higher up, small, square loop-holes pierced thesolid walls. The wooden flap-hoods of these were open; through thempoured the fresh night air, stirring the clustered flowers and thejewelled aigrets in the ladies' hair.

  The spectacle was pretty, even beautiful; at every lady's cover lay agift from the patroon, a crystal bosom-glass, mounted in silverfiligree, filled with roses in scented water; and, at the sight, a gustof hand-clapping swept around the table, like the rattle of Decemberwinds through dry palmettos.

  In a distant corner, slaves, dressed fancifully and turbaned likeBarbary blackamoors, played on fiddles and guitars, and the music wassuch as I should have enjoyed, loving all melody as I do, yet couldscarcely hear it in the flutter and chatter rising around me as theladies placed the bosom-bottles in their stomachers and opened theirMarlborough fans to set them waving all like restless wings.

  Yet, under this surface elegance and display, one could scarcely choosebut note how everywhere an amazing shiftlessness reigned in thepatroon's house. Cobwebs canopied the ceiling-beams with their silvery,ragged banners afloat in the candle's heat; dust, like a velvet mantle,lay over the Dutch plates and teapots, ranged on shelves against thepanelled wall midway 'twixt ceiling and unwaxed floor; the gaudy yellowliveries of the black servants were soiled and tarnished and illfitting, and all wore slovenly rolls, tied to imitate scratch-wigs, theeffect of which was amazing. The passion for cleanliness in the Dutchlies not in their men folk; a Dutch mistress of this manor house haddied o' shame long since--or died o' scrubbing.

  I felt mean and ungracious to sit there spying at my host's table, andstrove to forget it, yet was forced to wipe furtively spoon and forkupon the napkin on my knees ere I durst acquaint them with my mouth; andso did others, as I saw; but they did it openly and without pretence ofconcealment, and nobody took offence.

  Sir Lupus cared nothing for precedence at table, and said so when heseated us, which brought a sneer to Sir John Johnson's mouth and a scowlto Walter Butler's brow; but this provincial boorishness appeared to beforgotten ere the decanters had slopped the cloth twice, and fair facesflushed, and voices grew gayer, and the rattle of silver assaultingchina and the mellow ring of glasses swelled into a steady, melodiousdin which stirred the blood to my cheeks.

  We Ormonds love gayety--I choose the mildest phrase I know. Yet, take usat our worst, Irish that we are, and if there be a taint of license toour revels, and if we drink the devil's toast to the devil's ownundoing, the vital spring of our people remains unpolluted, the nation'sstrength and purity unsoiled, guarded forever by the chastity ofour women.

  Savoring my claret, I glanced askance at my neighbors; on my left sat mycousin Dorothy Varick, frankly absorbed in a roasted pigeon, yetwielding knife and fork with much grace and address; on my rightMagdalen Brant, step-cousin to Sir John, a lovely, soft-voiced girl,with velvety eyes and the faintest dusky tint, which showed the Indianblood through the carmine in her fresh, curved cheeks.

  I started to speak to her, but there came a call from the end of thetable, and we raised our glasses to Sir Lupus, for which civility heexpressed his thanks and gave us the ladies, which we drank standing,and reversed our glasses with a cheer.

  Then Walter Butler gave us "The Ormonds and the Earls of Arran," anamazing vanity, which shamed me so that I sat biting my lip, furious tosee Sir John wink at Colonel Claus, and itching to fling my glass at thehead of this young fool whose brain seemed cracked with brooding onhis pedigree.

  Meat was served ere I was called on, but later, a delicious Burgundybeing decanted, all called me with a persistent clamor, so that I wasobliged to ask permission of Sir Lupus, then rise, still tingling withthe memory of the silly toast offered by Walter Butler.

  "I give you," I said, "a republic where self-respect balances thecoronet, where there is no monarch, no high-priest, but only a cleanaltar, served by the parliament of a united people. Gentlemen, raiseyour glasses to the colonies of America and their ancient liberties!"

  And, amazed at what I had said, and knowing that I had not meant to sayit, I lifted my glass and drained it.

  Astonishment altered every face. Walter Butler mechanically raised hisglass, then set it down, then raised it once more, gazing blankly at me;and I saw others hesitate, as though striving to recollect the exactterms of my toast. But, after a second's hesitation, all drank sitting.Then each looked inquiringly at me, at neighbors, puzzled, yet alreadypartly reassured.

  "Gad!" said Colonel Claus, bluntly, "I thought at first that Burgundysmacked somewhat of Boston tea."

  "The Burgundy's sound enough," said Colonel John Butler, grimly.

  "So is the toast," bawled Sir Lupus. "It's a pacific toast, a soothingsentiment, neither one thing not t'other. Dammy, it's a toast no Quakerneed refuse."

  "Sir Lupus, your permission!" broke out Captain Campbell. "Gentlemen, itis strange that not one of his Majesty's officers has proposed theKing!" He looked straight at me and said, without turning his head: "Allloyal at this table will fill. Ladies, gentlemen, I give you his Majestythe King!"

  The toast was finished amid cheers. I drained my glass and turned itdown with a bow to Captain Campbell, who bowed to me as thoughgreatly relieved.

  The fiddles, bassoons, and guitars were playing and the slaves singingwhen the noise of the cheering died away; and I heard Dorothy beside mehumming the air and tapping the floor with her silken shoe, while shemoistened macaroons in a glass of Madeira and nibbled them with serenesatisfaction.

  "You appear to be happy," I whispered.

  "Perfectly. I adore sweets. Will you try a dish of cinnamon cake? Sop itin Burgundy; they harmonize to a most heavenly taste.... Look atMagdalen Brant, is she not sweet? Her cousin is Molly Brant, old SirWilliam's sweetheart, fled to Canada.... She follows this week withBetty Austin, that black-eyed little mischief-maker on Sir John's right,who owes her diamonds to Guy Johnson. La! What a gossip I grow! Butit's county talk, and all know it, and nobody cares save the Albanyblue-noses and the Van Cortlandts, who fall backward with standing toostraight--"

  "Dorothy," I said, sharply, "a blunted innocence is better than none,but it's a pity you know so much!"

  "How can I help it?" she asked, calmly, dipping another macaroon intoher glass.

  "It's a pity, all the same," I said.

  "Dew on a duck's back, my friend," she observed, serenely. "Cousin, if Iwere fashioned for evil I had been tainted long since."

  She sat up straight and swept the table with a heavy-lidded, insolentglance, eyebrows raised. The cold purity of her profile, the undimmedinnocence, the childish beauty of the curved cheek, touched me to thequick. Ah! the white flower to nourish here amid unconcealed corruption,with petals stainless, with bloom undimmed, with all its exquisitefragrance still fresh and wholesome in an air heavy with wine and theodor of dying roses.

  I looked around me. Guy Johnson, red in the face, was bending tooclosely beside his neighbor, Betty Austin. Colonel Claus talked loudlyacross the table to Captain McDonald, and swore fashionable oaths whichthe gaunt captain echoed obsequiously. Claire Putnam coquetted with herpaddle-stick fan, defending her roses from Sir George Covert, while SirJohn Johnson stared at them in cold disapproval; and I saw MagdalenBrant, chin propped on her clasped hands, close her eyes and breathedeeply while the wine burned her face, setting torches aflame in eithercheek. Later, when I spoke to her, she laughed pitifully, saying thather ears hummed like bee-hives. Then she said that she meant to go, butmade no movement; and presently her dark eyes closed again, and I sawthe fever pulse beating in her neck.

 
Some one had overturned a silver basin full of flowers, and a servant,sopping up the water, had brushed Walter Butler so that he flew into apassion and flung a glass at the terrified black, which set Sir Lupuslaughing till he choked, but which enraged me that he should so conductin the presence of his host's daughter.

  Yet if Sir Lupus could not only overlook it, but laugh at it, I, certes,had no right to rebuke what to me seemed a gross insult.

  Toasts flew fast now, and there was a punch in a silver bowl as large asa bushel--and spirits, too, which was strange, seeing that the ladiesremained at table.

  Then Captain Campbell would have all to drink the Royal Greens, standingon chairs, one foot on the table, which appeared to be his regiment'smess custom, and we did so, the ladies laughing and protesting, butfinally planting their dainty shoes on the edge of the table; andMagdalen Brant nigh fell off her chair--for lack of balance, as SirGeorge Covert protested, one foot alone being too small to sustain her.

  "That Cinderella compliment at our expense!" cried Betty Austin, but SirLupus cried: "Silence all, and keep one foot on the table!" And a littleblack slave lad, scarce more than a babe, appeared, dressed in alynx-skin, bearing a basket of pretty boxes woven out of scented grassand embroidered with silk flowers.

  At every corner he laid a box, all exclaiming and wondering what thesurprise might be, until the little black, arching his back, fetched ayowl like a lynx and ran out on all fours.

  "The gentlemen will open the boxes! Ladies, keep one foot on the table!"bawled Sir Lupus. We bent to open the boxes; Magdalen Brant and DorothyVarick, each resting a hand on my shoulder to steady them, peepedcuriously down to see. And, "Oh!" cried everybody, as the liftedbox-lids discovered snow-white pigeons sitting on great gilt eggs.

  The white pigeons fluttered out, some to the table, where they cranedtheir necks and ruffled their snowy plumes; others flapped up to theloop-holes, where they sat and watched us.

  "Break the eggs!" cried the patroon.

  I broke mine; inside was a pair of shoe-roses, each set with a pearl andclasped with a gold pin.

  Betty Austin clapped her hands in delight; Dorothy bent double, tore offthe silken roses from each shoe in turn, and I pinned on the newjewelled roses amid a gale of laughter.

  "A health to the patroon!" cried Sir George Covert, and we gave it witha will, glasses down. Then all settled to our seats once more to hearSir George sing a song.

  A slave passed him a guitar; he touched the strings and sang with goodtaste a song in questionable taste:

  "Jeanneton prend sa faucille."

  A delicate melody and neatly done; yet the verse--

  "Le deuxieme plus habile L'embrassant sous le menton"--

  made me redden, and the envoi nigh burned me alivewith blushes, yet was rapturously applauded, and thepatroon fell a-choking with his gross laughter.

  Then Walter Butler would sing, and, I confess, didit well, though the song was sad and the words toomelancholy to please.

  "I know a rebel song," cried Colonel Claus. "Here,give me that fiddle and I'll fiddle it, dammy if I don't--ay,and sing it, too!"

  In a shower of gibes and laughter the fiddle wasfetched, and the Indian fighter seized the bow and drewa most distressful strain, singing in a whining voice:

  "Come hearken to a bloody tale, Of how the soldiery Did murder men in Boston, As you full soon shall see. It came to pass on March the fifth Of seventeen-seventy, A regiment, the twenty-ninth. Provoked a sad affray!"

  "Chorus!" shouted Captain Campbell, beating time:

  "Fol-de-rol-de-rol-de-ray-- Provoked a sad affray!"

  "That's not in the song!" protested Colonel Claus, but everybody sang itin whining tones.

  "Continue!" cried Captain Campbell, amid a burst of laughter. And Clausgravely drew his fiddle-bow across the strings and sang:

  "In King Street, by the Butcher's Hall The soldiers on us fell, Likewise before their barracks (It is the truth I tell). And such a dreadful carnage In Boston ne'er was known; They killed Samuel Maverick-- He gave a piteous groan."

  And, "Fol-de-rol!" roared Captain Campbell, "He gave a piteous groan!"

  "John Clark he was wounded, On him they did fire;James Caldwell and Crispus Attucks Lay bleeding in the mire;Their regiment, the twenty-ninth, Killed Monk and Sam I Gray,While Patrick Carr lay cold in death And could not flee away--

  "Oh, tally!" broke out Sir John; "are we to listen to such stuff allnight?"

  More laughter; and Sir George Covert said that he feared Sir JohnJohnson had no sense of humor.

  "I have heard that before," said Sir John, turning his cold eyes on SirGeorge. "But if we've got to sing at wine, in Heaven's name let us singsomething sensible."

  "No, no!" bawled Claus. "This is the abode of folly to-night!" And hesang a catch from "Pills to Purge Melancholy," as broad a verse as Icared to hear in such company.

  "Cheer up, Sir John!" cried Betty Austin; "there are other slippers todrink from--"

  Sir John stood up, exasperated, but could not face the storm oflaughter, nor could Dorothy, silent and white in her anger; and she roseto go, but seemed to think better of it and resumed her seat, disdainfuleyes sweeping the table.

  "Face the fools," I whispered. "Your confusion is their victory."

  Captain McDonald, stirring the punch, filled all glasses, crying outthat we should drink to our sweethearts in bumpers.

  "Drink 'em in wine," protested Captain Campbell, thickly. "Who but afeckless McDonald wud drink his leddy in poonch?"

  "I said poonch!" retorted McDonald, sternly. "If ye wish wine, drink it;but I'm thinkin' the Argyle Campbells are better judges o' blood thanof red wine.

  "Stop that clan-feud!" bawled the patroon, angrily.

  But the old clan-feud blazed up, kindled from the ever-smoulderingembers of Glencoe, which the massacre of a whole clan had notextinguished in all these years.

  "And why should an Argyle Campbell judge blood?" cried Captain Campbell,in a menacing voice.

  "And why not?" retorted McDonald. "Breadalbane spilled enough to teachye."

  "Teach who?"

  "Teach you!--and the whole breed o' black Campbells from Perth to Galwayand Fonda's Bush, which ye dub Broadalbin. I had rather be a Monteithand have the betrayal of Wallace cast in my face than be a Campbell ofArgyle wi' the memory o' Glencoe to follow me to hell."

  "Silence!" roared the patroon, struggling to his feet. Sir George Covertcaught at Captain Campbell's sleeve as he rose; Sir John Johnson stoodup, livid with anger.

  "Let this end now!" he said, sternly. "Do officers of the Royal Greensconduct like yokels at a fair? Answer me, Captain Campbell! And you,Captain McDonald! Take your seat, sir; and if I hear that cursed word'Glencoe' 'again, the first who utters it faces a court-martial!"

  Partly sobered, the Campbell glared mutely at the McDonald; the latteralso appeared to have recovered a portion of his senses and resumed hisseat in silence, glowering at the empty glasses before him.

  "Now be sensible, gentlemen," said Colonel Claus, with a jovial nod tothe patroon; "let pass, let pass. This is no time to raise the fierycross in the hills. Gad, there's a new pibroch to march to these days--

  "Pibroch o' Hirokoue! Pibroch o' Hirokonue!"

  he hummed, deliberately, but nobody laughed, and the grave, pale facesof the women turned questioningly one to the other.

  Enemies or allies, there was terror in the name of "Iroquois." ButWalter Butler looked up from his gloomy meditation and raised his glasswith a ghastly laugh.

  "I drink to our red allies," he said, slowly drained his glass till buta color remained in it, then dipped his finger in the dregs and drewupon the white table-cloth a blood-red cross.

  "There's your clan-sign, you Campbells, you McDonalds," he said, with aterrifying smile which none could misinterpret.

  Then Sir George Covert said: "Sir William Johnson knew best. Had helived, t
here had been no talk of the Iroquois as allies or as enemies."

  I said, looking straight at Walter Butler: "Can there be any serioustalk of turning these wild beasts loose against the settlers ofTryon County?"

  "Against rebels," observed Sir John Johnson, coldly. "No loyal man needfear our Mohawks."

  A dead silence followed. Servants, clearing the round table of silver,flowers, cloth--all, save glasses and decanters--stepped noiselessly,and I knew the terror of the Iroquois name had sharpened their dullears. Then came old Cato, tricked out in flame-colored plush, bearingthe staff of major-domo; and the servants in their tarnished liveriesmarshalled behind him and filed out, leaving us seated before a baretable, with only our glasses and bottles to break the expanse ofpolished mahogany and soiled cloth.

  Captain McDonald rose, lifted the steaming kettle from the hob, and setit on a great, blue tile, and the gentlemen mixed their spiritsthoughtfully, or lighted long, clay pipes.

  The patroon, wreathed in smoke, lay back in his great chair and rattledhis toddy-stick for attention--an unnecessary noise, for all werewatching him, and even Walter Butler's gloomy gaze constantly revertedto that gross, red face, almost buried in thick tobacco-smoke, like thehead of some intemperate and grotesquely swollen Jupiter crownedwith clouds.

  The plea of the patroon for neutrality in the war now sweeping towardsthe Mohawk Valley I had heard before. So, doubtless, had those present.

  He waxed pathetic over the danger to his vast estate; he pointed out theconservative attitude of the great patroons and lords of the manors ofLivingston, Cosby, Phillipse, Van Rensselaer, and Van Cortlandt.

  "What about Schuyler?" I asked.

  "Schuyler's a fool!" he retorted, angrily. "Any landed proprietor herecan become a rebel general in exchange for his estate! A fine bargain! Athrifty dicker! Let Philip Schuyler enjoy his brief reign in Albany.What's the market value of the glory he exchanged for his broad acres?Can you appraise it, Sir John?"

  Then Sir John Johnson arose, and, for the only moment in his career, hestood upon a principle--a fallacious one, but still a principle; and forthat I respected him, and have never quite forgotten it, even throughthe terrible years when he razed and burned and murdered among a peoplewho can never forget the red atrocities of his devastations.

  Glancing slowly around the table, with his pale, cold eyes contractingin the candle's glare, he spoke in a voice absolutely passionless, yetwhich carried the conviction to all that what he uttered washopelessly final:

  "Sir Lupus complains that he hazards all, should he cast his fortuneswith his King. Yet I have done that thing. I am to-day a man with aprice set on my head by these rebels of my own country. My lands, if notalready confiscated by rebel commissioners, are occupied by rebels; mymanor-houses, my forts, my mills, my tenants' farms are held by therebels and my revenues denied me. I was confined on parole within thelimits of Johnson Hall. They say I broke my parole, but they lie. It wasonly when I had certain news that the Boston rebels were coming to seizemy person and violate a sacred convention that I retired to Canada."

  He paused. The explanation was not enough to satisfy me, and I expectedhim to justify the arming of Johnson Hall and his discovered intrigueswith the Mohawks which set the rebels on the march to seize his person.He gave none, resuming quietly:

  "I have hazarded a vast estate, vaster than yours, Sir Lupus, greaterthan the estates of all these gentlemen combined. I do it because I oweobedience to the King who has honored me, and for no other reason onearth. Yet I do it in fullest confidence and belief that my lands willbe restored to me when this rebellion is stamped on and trodden out tothe last miserable spark."

  He hesitated, wiped his thin mouth with his laced handkerchief, andturned directly towards the patroon.

  "You ask me to remain neutral. You promise me that, even at this latehour, my surrender and oath of neutrality will restore me my estates andguarantee me a peaceful, industrious life betwixt two tempests. It maybe so, Sir Lupus. I think it would be so. But, my friend, to fail myKing when he has need of me is a villainy I am incapable of. Thefortunes of his Majesty are my fortunes; I stand or fall with him. Thisis my duty as I see it. And, gentlemen, I shall follow it while lifeendures."

  He resumed his seat amid absolute silence. Presently the patroon raisedhis eyes and looked at Colonel John Butler.

  "May we hear from you, sir?" he asked, gravely.

  "I trust that all may, one day, hear from Butler's Rangers," he said.

  "And I swear they shall," broke in Walter Butler, his dark eyes burninglike golden coals.

  "I think the Royal Greens may make some little noise in the world," saidCaptain Campbell, with an oath.

  Guy Johnson waved his thin, brown hand towards the patroon: "I hold myKing's commission as intendant of Indian affairs for North America. Thatis enough for me. Though they rob me of Guy Park and every acre, I shallredeem my lands in a manner no man can ever forget!"

  "Gentlemen," added Colonel Claus, in his bluff way, "you all make greatmerit of risking property and life in this wretched teapot tempest; youall take credit for unchaining the Mohawks. But you give them no credit.What have the Iroquois to gain by aiding us? Why do they dig up thehatchet, hazarding the only thing they have--their lives? Because theyare led by a man who told the rebel Congress that the covenant chainwhich the King gave to the Mohawks is still unspotted by dishonor,unrusted by treachery, unbroken, intact, without one link missing!Gentlemen, I give you Joseph Brant, war-chief of the Mohawknation! Hiro!"

  All filled and drank--save three--Sir George Covert, Dorothy Varick, andmyself.

  I felt Walter Butler's glowing eyes upon me, and they seemed to burn outthe last vestige of my patience.

  "Don't rise! Don't speak now!" whispered Dorothy, her hand closing on myarm.

  "I must speak," I said, aloud, and all heard me and turned on me theirfevered eyes.

  "Speak out, in God's name!" said Sir George Covert, and I rose,repeating, "In God's name, then!"

  "Give no offence to Walter Butler, I beg of you," whispered Dorothy.

  I scarcely heard her; through the candle-light I saw the ring of eyesshining, all watching me.

  "I applaud the loyal sentiments expressed by Sir John Johnson," I said,slowly. "Devotion to principle is respected by all men of honor. Theytell me that our King has taxed a commonwealth against its will. Youadmit his Majesty's right to do so. That ranges you on one side.Gentlemen," I said, deliberately, "I deny the right of Englishmen totake away the liberties of Englishmen. That ranges me on theother side."

  A profound silence ensued. The ring of eyes glowed.

  "And now," said I, gravely, "that we stand arrayed, each on his properside, honestly, loyally differing one from the other, let us, if we can,strive to avert a last resort to arms. And if we cannot, let us drawhonorably, and trust to God and a stainless blade!"

  I bent my eyes on Walter Butler; he met them with a vacant glare.

  "Captain Butler," I said, "if our swords be to-day stainless, he whofirst dares employ a savage to do his work forfeits the right to bearthe arms and title of a soldier."

  "Mr. Ormond! Mr. Ormond!" broke in Colonel Claus. "Do you impeach LordGeorge Germaine?"

  "I care not whom I impeach!" I said, hotly. "If Lord George Germainecounsels the employment of Indians against Englishmen, rebels thoughthey be, he is a monstrous villain and a fool!"

  "Fool!" shouted Colonel Campbell, choking with rage. "He'd be a fool tolet these rebels win over the Iroquois before we did!"

  "What rebel has sought to employ the Indians?" I asked. "If any inauthority have dreamed of such a horror, they are guilty as thoughalready judged and damned!"

  "Mr. Ormond," cut in Guy Johnson, fairly trembling with fury, "you dealvery freely in damnation. Do you perhaps assume the divine right whichyou deny your King?"

  "And do you find merit in crass treason, sir?" burst out McDonald,striking the table with clinched fist.

  "Treason," cut in Sir John Johnson, "was the un
doing of a certain nobleduke in Queen Anne's time."

  "You are in error," I said, calmly.

  "Was James, Duke of Ormond, not impeached by Mr. Stanhope in openParliament?" shouted Captain McDonald.

  "The House of Commons," I replied, calmly, "dishonored itself and itstraditions by bringing a bill of attainder against the Duke of Ormond.That could not make him a traitor."

  "He was not a traitor," broke out Walter Butler, white to the lips, "butyou are!"

  "A lie," I said.

  With the awful hue of death stamped on his face, Walter Butler rose andfaced me; and though they dragged us to our seats, shouting andexclaiming in the uproar made by falling chairs and the rush of feet, hestill kept his eyes on me, shallow, yellow, depthless, terrible eyes.

  "A nice scene to pass in women's presence!" roared the patroon. "Dammy,Captain Butler, the fault lies first with you! Withdraw that word'traitor,' which touches us all!"

  "He has so named himself," said Walter Butler, "Withdraw it! You foulyour own nest, sir!"

  A moment passed. "I withdraw it," motioned Butler, with parched lips.

  "Then I withdraw the lie," I said, watching him.

  "That is well," roared the patroon. "That is as it should be. Shallkinsmen quarrel at such a time? Offer your hand, Captain Butler. Offeryours, George."

  "No," I said, and gazed mildly at the patroon.

  Sir George Covert rose and sauntered over to my chair. Under cover ofthe hubbub, not yet subsided, he said: "I fancy you will shortly requirea discreet friend."

  "Not at all, sir," I replied, aloud. "If the war spares Mr. Butler andmyself, then I shall call on you. I've another quarrel first." Allturned to look at me, and I added, "A quarrel touching the liberties ofEnglishmen." Sir John Johnson sneered, and it was hard to swallow, beingthe sword-master that I am.

  But the patroon broke out furiously. "Mr. Ormond honors himself. If anyhere so much as looks the word 'coward,' he will answer to me--old andfat as I am! I've no previous engagement; I care not who prevails, Kingor Congress. I care nothing so they leave me my own! I'm free to resenta word, a look, a breath--ay, the flutter of a lid, Sir John!"

  "Thanks, uncle," I said, touched to the quick. "These gentlemen are notfools, and only a fool could dream an Ormond coward."

  "Ay, a fool!" cried Walter Butler. "I am an Ormond! There is nocowardice in the blood. He shall have his own time; he is an Ormond!"

  Dorothy Varick raised her bare, white arm and pointed straight at WalterButler. "See that your sword remains unspotted, sir," she said, in aclear voice. "For if you hire the Iroquois to do your work you standdishonored, and no true man will meet you on the field you forfeit!"

  "What's that?" cried Sir John, astonished, and Sir George Covert cried:

  "Brava! Bravissima! There speaks the Ormond through the Varick!"

  Walter Butler leaned forward, staring at me. "You refuse to meet me if Iuse our Mohawks?"

  And Dorothy, her voice trembling a little, picked up the word from hisgrinning teeth. "Mohawks understand the word 'honor' better than do you,Captain Butler, if you are found fighting in their ranks!"

  She laid her hand on my arm, still facing him.

  "My cousin shall not cross blade with a soiled blade! He dare not--ifonly for my own poor honor's sake!"

  Then Colonel Claus rose, thumping violently on the table, and, "Here's apretty rumpus!" he bawled, "with all right and all wrong, and nobody tosnuff out the spreading flame, but every one a-flinging tallow in a firewe all may rue! My God! Are we not all kinsmen here, gathered to decentcouncil how best to save our bacon in this pot a-boiling over? If Mr.Ormond and Captain Butler must tickle sword-points one day, that is nocause for dolorous looks or hot words--no! Rather is it a family trick,a good, old-fashioned game that all boys play, and no harm, either. HaveI not played it, too? Has any gentleman present not pinked or beenpinked on that debatable land we call the field of honor? Come, kinsmen,we have all had too much wine--or too little."

  "Too little!" protested Captain Campbell, with a forced laugh; and BettyAustin loosed her tongue for the first time to cry out that her mouthwas parched wi' swallowing so many words all piping-hot. Whereat one ortwo laughed, and Colonel John Butler said:

  Neither Mr. Ormond nor Sir George Covert are rebels. They differ from usin this matter touching on the Iroquois. If they think we soil our handswith war-paint, let them keep their own wristbands clean, but fight fortheir King as sturdily as shall we this time next month."

  "That is a very pleasant view to take," observed Sir George, with asmile.

  "A sensible view," suggested Campbell.

  "Amiable," said Sir George, blandly.

  "Oh, let us fill to the family!" broke in McDonald, impatiently. "It'sdry work cursing your friends! Fill up, Campbell, and I'll forgetGlencoe ... while I'm drinking."

  "Mr. Ormond," said Walter Butler, in a low voice, "I cannot credit illof a man of your name. You are young and hot-blooded, and you perhapslack as yet a capacity for reflection. I shall look for you among uswhen the time comes. No Ormond can desert his King."

  "Let it rest so, Captain Butler," I said, soberly. "I will say this:when I rose I had not meant to say all that I said. But I believe it tobe the truth, though I chose the wrong moment to express it. If I changethis belief I will say so."

  And so the outburst of passion sank to ashes; and if the fire was notwholly extinguished, it at least lay covered, like the heart of aSeminole council-fire after the sachems have risen and departed withcovered heads.

  Drinking began again. The ladies gathered in a group, whispering andlaughing their relief at the turn affairs were taking--all save Dorothy,who sat serenely beside me, picking the kernels from walnut-shells andsipping a glass of port.

  Sir John Johnson found a coal in the embers on the hearth, and, leaninghalf over the table, began to draw on the table-cloth a rude map ofTryon County.

  "All know," he said, "that the province of New York is the key to therebel strength. While they hold West Point and Albany and Stanwix, theyhold Tryon County by the throat. Let them occupy Philadelphia. Whocares? We can take it when we choose. Let them hold their dirty Boston;let the rebel Washington sneak around the Jerseys. Who cares? There'llbe the finer hunting for us later. Gentlemen, as you know, the invasionof New York is at hand--has already begun. And that's no secret from therebels, either; they may turn and twist and double here in New Yorkprovince, but they can't escape the trap, though they saw it long ago."

  He raised his head and glanced at me.

  "Here is a triangle," he said; "that triangle is New York province. Hereis Albany, the objective of our three armies, the gate of Tryon County,the plague-spot we are to cleanse, and the military centre. Now mark!Burgoyne moves through the lakes, south, reducing Ticonderoga andEdward, routing the rats out of Saratoga, and approaches Albany--so.Clinton moves north along the Hudson to meet him--so--forcing theHighlands at Peekskill, taking West Point or leaving it for laterpunishment. Nothing can stop him; he meets Burgoyne here, at Albany."

  Again he looked at me. "You see, sir, that from two angles of thetriangle converging armies depart towards a common objective."

  "I see," I said.

  "Now," he resumed, "the third force, under Colonel Barry St. Leger--towhich my regiment and the regiment of Colonel Butler have the honor tobe attached--embarks from Canada, sails up the St. Lawrence, disembarksat Oswego, on Lake Erie, marches straight on Stanwix, reduces it, andjoins the armies of Clinton and Burgoyne at Albany."

  He stood up, casting his bit of wood-coal on the cloth before him.

  "That, sir," he said to me, "is the plan of campaign, which the rebelsknow and cannot prevent. That means the invasion of New York, thescouring out of every plague-spot, the capture and destruction of everyrebel between Albany and the Jerseys."

  He turned with a cold smile to Colonel Butler. "I think my estates willnot remain long in rebel hands," he said.

  "Do you not understand, Mr. Ormond?" cried Captain Campbell
, twitchingme by the sleeve, an impertinence I passed, considering him overflushedwith wine. "Do you not comprehend how hopeless is this rebellion now?"

  "How hopeless?" drawled Sir George, looking over my shoulder, and, asthough by accident, drawing Campbell's presumptuous hand through hisown arm.

  "How hopeless?" echoed Campbell. "Why, here are three armies of hisMajesty's troops concentrating on the heart of Tryon County. What canthe rebels do?"

  "The patroons are with us, or have withdrawn from the contest," said SirJohn; "the great folk, military men, and we of the landed gentry are forthe King. What remains to defy his authority?"

  "Of what kidney are these Tryon County men?" I asked, quietly. Sir JohnJohnson misunderstood me.

  "Mr. Ormond," said Sir John, "Tryon County is habited by four races.First, the Scotch-Irish, many of them rebels, I admit, but many alsoloyal. Balance these against my Highlanders, and cross quits. Second,the Palatines--those men whose ancestors came hither to escape thearmies of Louis XIV. when they devastated the Palatinate. And again Iadmit these to be rebels. Third, those of Dutch blood, descended frombrave ancestors, like our worthy patroon here. And once more I willadmit that many of these also are tainted with rebel heresies. Fourth,the English, three-quarters of whom are Tories. And now I ask you, canthese separate handfuls of mixed descent unite? And, if that werepossible, can they stand for one day, one hour, against the trainedtroops of England?"

  "God knows," I said.